


Of Christmas and Cramps

by MDJensen



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Athos is lactose intolerant, Christmas, Christmas Music, Christmasy things, Gen, and a total martyr, sofa snuggles, tw for tummy troubles but nothing too graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 04:14:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2837624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MDJensen/pseuds/MDJensen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas Eve. Aramis makes hot chocolate, Athos is lactose intolerant, and Porthos is an absolute dear. There is discussion of which Christmas song is the worst. Modern AU; gratuitous but mostly light-hearted H/C.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Christmas and Cramps

It wasn't an ugly jumper party, as Porthos kept reminding Aramis. It just wasn't. Nothing on the invitation had said anything about jumpers, ugly or otherwise.

“It's just a regular Christmas party,” Porthos insisted, once again, as Aramis whirled around the kitchen in his hideous plaid pullover.

“Every Christmas party is an ugly jumper party,” Aramis replied sagely. Sitting on the sofa with Porthos, Athos shrugged helplessly. D'Artagnan and Contance's party started in less then ten minutes, and yet here they were still, at the flat, not even halfway out the door.

“What are you making?” Porthos demanded.

“You'll see.”

“Aramis, what are you making?” Athos prompted gently, a minute later, when the truth still had not been revealed.

Aramis appeared, holding two mugs in each hand. “Hot chocolate!” he announced, beaming. “None of that powder shit, but the real deal. Here, have this, and then we'll go.” He handed a mug apiece to Porthos and Athos, then disappeared back into the kitchen and returned a moment later with his own. “Drink!” he insisted happily. “There's nutmeg in it! Try it!”

“We're going to be late,” Athos said flatly, staring down at his mug. “We need to--”

“Oh, please just try it,” Aramis pouted. “It's festive.”

Sufficiently swayed, Athos lifted the mug to his lips and drank. Porthos did the same. He burned himself slightly, but it was nearly worth it-- the hot chocolate was lovely, rich and not too sweet, and Aramis had even added little red and green sprinkles to the whipped cream on top.

Once their mugs had been drained, Aramis seemed satisfied. He cleared the empty vessels away while Athos and Porthos pulled on their coats, then joined them at the door, juddering with excitement.

“C'n you please try,” Porthos sighed, “to dial it back even just half a percentage?”

“I shan't,” Aramis replied haughtily. “It's Christmas.”

Though their lateness had not been intentional, in a way it had been a blessing; the party was well under way by the time they arrived. And nobody besides Aramis was dressed in an even remotely tacky fashion. He didn't seem to mind. The moment they arrived, he folded seamlessly into the crowd, passing from acquaintance to acquaintance, spreading his cheerful mood around the party.

Porthos stuck a bit closer to home, careful not to stray too far from Athos. They were among friends, it was true, but the man truly did not enjoy parties of any sort, and in fact seemed to grow more and more cross as the night wore on.

It wasn't until he excused himself to the loo for the second time in half an hour that Porthos allowed himself to feel a bit of frustration. Parties weren't Athos thing, surely, but couldn't he put in even the slightest bit more effort?

The third time he excused himself, however, Porthos began to see a different picture. Though everyone else in the room was balancing a glass of wine with a plate of snacks, Athos' hands were empty. He was sweating a bit too, now that Porthos was looking, and his eyes were ever-so-slightly glazed.

The fourth time that Athos left for the toilet, Porthos excused himself as well, and met him in the hallway. Athos avoided his gaze, and made to re-enter the living room.

Porthos halted him with a hand to his elbow. “Stop,” he murmured. Athos frowned. “You're ill,” Porthos continued. “I know you hate admittin' it, but you ain't been to the loo four times in one hour to powder your damn nose.”

Athos' expression scrunched up even further.

“Thought you were bein' discreet, eh?”

Athos sighed. “Discretion never fails to be lost on you, Porthos.”

“Never. We're goin' home.”

Athos shook his head.

“'snot a discussion. We're goin' home.”

“I'm fine.”

“Which end?” Porthos prompted, when Athos pulled a stubborn face. It might have been a bit of a low blow, but from the sudden sag in Athos' expression he knew he'd pierced the shield of obstinacy.

“Both,” he admitted, then added a bit desperately, “Aramis has been looking forward to this.”

“No reason he can't catch a cab on his own. An' if you need to see it another way, think: you're sparin' everyone else here comin' down with whatever you've got.”

“I'm not ill.”

“You--”

“I didn't take any lactase,” Athos admitted, coloring slightly.

“But what did you have that had-- oh,” Porthos groaned. “The hot chocolate.”

Athos nodded, going a bit green.

“You forgot?”

“I ran out.”

“Then why the hell'd you drink it?” Porthos snapped. Athos sank in on himself a bit, face falling rapidly.

“Aramis was proud of it.”

“Christ. We're leavin'. Do you need to, eh, before we--?”

Athos thought a moment, then shook his head.

“I'll make our excuses, if you'll call the cab?”

“All right.”

Porthos jogged back into the living room, where he spotted Constance and d'Artagnan, chatting a bit tipsily with Aramis. “Hey,” he breathed, coming to a stop in front of them. “Athos an' I are headin' out a bit early. But thanks again, everything was lovely.”

“Ooh, of course,” Constance cooed happily. “Everything all right?”

“Yeah, fine. Merry Christmas. Aramis, mate, see you back home?”

Constance and d'Artagnan happily returned Porthos' well wishes, but Aramis broke into a pout. “I did ask him to _try_ and have fun,” he whined.

“See you back home,” Porthos said firmly, and turned on his heel. He snagged their coats from the pile, then went back to the hallway.

He couldn't help but glance sideways at Athos every couple of seconds as they waited outside for the cab to arrive. The man looked thoroughly miserable. He was standing stock still, stubbornly refusing even the smallest motion; he had started to shiver, though, despite himself, resulting in a tight little trembles that tugged plaintively at Porthos' heart.

He sighed in relief when the cab finally arrived. The ten-minute drive was spent with one eye on Athos and one out the window, ready to direct the cabbie to stop at the nearest fast-food joint if Athos seemed to need it. He didn't. However, he all but sprinted to the loo the moment Porthos had unlocked the front door.

Porthos winced in sympathy. He switched on the radio, upped the volume, and poked around the kitchen trying not to eavesdrop on whatever Athos was enduring in there.

A few minutes later, Athos emerged, shaking from head to toe. He flopped down on the sofa, tugged the afghan over himself, and curled up in a hapless little ball.

The next hour or so passed in much the same way. Athos popped up and down to the toilet every couple of minutes and Porthos lurked uselessly in the next room over, not wanting to intrude but feeling guilty at the thought of leaving Athos completely on his own.

An hour later, the cabinets were thoroughly organized. Porthos had heard three separate versions of _Last Christmas_ , and had begun to realize that Athos had not gotten up in a decent amount of time. Tentatively, he poked his head into the living room. Athos looked awful, pale and sweaty and shivery; Porthos had even entertained the hope that he may have fallen asleep, but no Athos had had no such luck.

“Hey,” Porthos said, stepping hesitantly into the room.

“Hey,” Athos replied.

“Are you alive?”

“The jury is out.”

“Are you feelin' any better?”

“Well, I believe I'm done with my volcano impersonations,” Athos replied, with forced levity. “It's just cramps from here on in, I think.”

“Hang on a tick.” Porthos went back into the kitchen, opened a neatly-organized cabinet, and pulled down the object he'd considered tossing out now half an hour before.

“What's that?” Athos grumbled as Porthos returned to the living room, having filled the thing already.

“Hot water bottle. I think it's Aramis'. I've some vague memory of him gettin' it for his shoulder or somethin'. Might help.”

“Thanks,” Athos murmured, as Porthos passed him the warm, sturdy bottle. He clutched it tightly to his belly as he curled back up under the blanket, biting back a groan.

Porthos crossed his arms as he stared down at him. “It seems kinda cruel to point out that you did this to yourself, but it seems irresponsible not to.”

Athos grunted. “I already told you--”

“Yeah, yeah, man gives you the puppy eyes, so you drink his prune-an'-ipecac smoothie right down.”

Athos swallowed thickly.

“How about a little self-preservation?” Porthos continued, and then Athos groaned again, a bit more loudly. His stomach gurgled, and Porthos frowned. “You gonna puke?”

“M'ybe,” Athos slurred, and pushed himself upright. The hot water bottle plopped to the floor as he closed his eyes and took a couple of slow breaths. “No,” he amended, after a minute or two had passed. “No, I'm not.”

“Here,” Porthos muttered, and before Athos could lie back down he ducked around him and positioned himself at the end of the sofa instead. He reached down and retrieved the bottle. “C'mere.”

Athos stared blankly, but didn't resist when Porthos pulled him down against his own side and kept him there with one arm slung casually. Porthos passed him the hot water bottle, and Athos sighed heavily as he tucked himself up around it.

For a while they were silent, no sound in the apartment but Christmas songs on the kitchen radio. Then Athos cleared his throat. “Why are you hugging me?”

“I was tryin' to make you more comfortable.”

“But you're not just propping me up. You're actively hugging me. I don't think I've ever been less appealing than in this very moment.”

“Because,” Porthos began, and tugged Athos a little closer to him to illustrate his point, “you put yourself through hours of misery just so Aramis could be happy for five minutes, and I think you deserve a hug for that. An' I think you need one, too.”

“I ruined the party.”

“You did not.”

“I didn't mean to make us leave early.”

“We made it through more than half,” Porthos soothed, and gave into the urge to brush Athos' sweaty hair back from his forehead. “So stop frettin'. How's your stomach?”

“It hates me.”

“Actually, if I understand lactose intolerance correctly, it's your small intestine that hates you.”

Athos actually gave a little huff at that, which in Athos terms was equal to a fairly exuberant laugh. Then the song on the radio changed, and Porthos swore.

“What is it?”

“ _Wonderful Christmastime_. Flea an' I have a competition every year to see who can go the longest without hearing it. I'd already won, but I thought maybe I'd make it the whole way there.”

“Mm,” Athos replied, his eyes worlds away.

“What are you thinkin' of?” Porthos prompted gently.

“Thomas and I used to do the same thing, but with the chipmunk song.”

Porthos laughed quietly, well aware of how unguarded Athos had to be at the moment to speak of his late brother so freely. “That song's pretty awful,” he agreed, rubbing Athos' arm.

“It's better than _Santa Baby_. But Tom actually liked that one, for some unknown reason.”

“Nothin's worse than the one about the teeth.”

“ _Feliz Navidad_?”

“Shit. _I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus_.”

“ _Christmas Shoes_?”

“Oh god,” Porthos breathed. “I'll cry. I'm warnin' you right now, if that one comes on I will put my head on your shoulder and cry.”

“I wouldn't tell a soul.”

It was then that they heard the key in the lock.

“Hey!” Porthos called, over the sounds of Aramis removing his coat and boots.

“Hey yourself,” Aramis called back, sounding grumpy. “Treville gave me a ride. Two certain someones were supposed to split cab fare with me, after all-- hey,” he said again, finally tumbling into the room. His ire faded at once as he took in the sight before him. “Shit, Ath, I didn't realize you were ill.”

“I'm all right,” Athos replied automatically, as Aramis frowned at Porthos.

“I know you love a cuddle, mate, but you're gonna catch whatever he's got, and I'm not going to spend Christmas looking after both of you! Athos, you didn't have to come if you were ill!”

“I'll be all right soon.”

“Not if it's that bug that's been going around the building.”

“I'll be fine, Aramis.”

“What, do you think it's just something you-- oh my god. Athos,” Aramis groaned, realization dawning. “Tell me you took your pills when I gave you that hot chocolate.”

Athos offered a rueful smile.

“There was milk in that! You did realize, yeah?”

“It was a logical assumption, yes.”

“Then why the hell didn't you take any lactase?”

“I was out,” Athos replied. Sheepishness was fading rapidly into chagrin, and Porthos felt rather than saw Athos press a bit tighter against him.

“They why the fuck did you--”

“Aramis,” Porthos cut in sharply, because Athos was fully huddling against him now, like a reprimanded child. “Leave it. He's been laid into enough for one evening Poor bloke's havin' a bad enough time as it is.”

Aramis' expression softened at once, looking a bit chastened himself-- then his eyes lit up brightly. “Don't go anywhere,” he ordered, and dashed away into the kitchen before he could hear Athos' soft reply of “we won't”.

Beneath the strains of _Come All Ye Faithful_ , a racket sounded. The fridge opened and closed, then some cabinets; the toaster dinged, accompanied by the kettle's swelling _fsshhh_. A few minutes later, Aramis returned. The tray in his hand held a banana, a slice of toast, a mug of tea, and a bottle of Gatorade.

He deposited it ceremoniously in Porthos' lap. “Do not,” Aramis warned, “have _any_ of this unless you _want_ to.”

Athos smiled, looking genuinely touched. “Thank you.” He reached out one still-unsteady hand and seized the Gatorade.

“Want any of the food?” Porthos asked lightly.

“Not just now, thanks,” Athos replied, breaking the seal on the bottle in his hand and taking a tentative swallow.

Aramis was still standing, hands on his hips, bouncing awkwardly. “Shit. I can't believe I made you sick on Christmas Eve.”

“It's all right, Aramis,” Athos soothed.

“Don't man up to it. You can yell at me if you like. What-- Athos, what are you staring at?”

“This,” Athos replied, holding up his Gatorade bottle.

“What?”

“It's red. And the label's green. It's sort of-- festive.”

A look of relief spread over Aramis' face, followed closely by a grin. “First victory of the evening, then,” he joked, sounding all at once tipsy and tired.

“Sit,” Athos ordered quietly.

“Then move your feet,” Aramis sighed.

Athos did so, sipping quietly at his Gatorade, but the moment Aramis had sat Porthos saw him worm then back under his arse. Aramis smiled. “All's well that ends well, I guess,” he breathed.

“Right. Except I heard _Wonderful Christmastime_ ,” Porthos griped.

“Fuck. You'd almost made it.”

“I know.”

“Have you heard _I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus_ yet?”

“Is that the one you try to avoid?”

Aramis looked genuinely scandalized. “No. I-- that's my favorite.”

“Oh my god,” Porthos groaned, and let his head fall back dramatically. “Oh my god.”

It was then that the radio switched songs. An overeager voice prompted,  _ all right, you chipmunks, ready to sing your song? _

Beside him, Athos stiffened. The trembling that had all but left him returned again in full.

Without meaning to, without fully realizing that he was doing it, Porthos grabbed him up to his side in a steady embrace. Athos buried his face in the crook of Porthos' arm.

“Feeling worse again?” Aramis fretted. 

“'m all right.”

“Are you sure? 'cause I could pop to the chemist, pick up something--”

“Can you put fresh water in his bottle?” Porthos cut in, and Aramis nodded. He snagged the hot water bottle out from Athos' grasp and disappeared into the kitchen, affording Porthos a moment of privacy in which he stroked Athos' mop of hair unashamedly. “'sall right,” he murmured. “'sall right.”

The song was ending as Aramis repeated and slipped the newly-hot contraption back into Athos' grasp. “You sure you're all right?”

Athos lifted his head. “I'm all right, Aramis. Sit. It's got to be nearly Christmas.”

Porthos glanced at the clock. “Quarter 'til midnight.” He looked at Athos, who had drained his Gatorade, took it from him and laid the whole tray aside. “What's say we see if we can make it without hearing the one about the teeth, at least.”

“I love that one,” Aramis gasped.

“All right, then.  _ Feliz Navidad _ .”

“Don't tell me,” Athos drawled, as Aramis opened his mouth to speak. “You love that one too.”

Aramis nodded mutely.

“Let's see if we can find one that Aramis doesn't like before it turns Christmas,” Porthos suggested.

“Best of luck,” Aramis sniffed. “I can't think of any.”

“ _ Christmas Shoes _ ,” Athos warned, cutting right to the quick. Aramis tossed his head.

“I don't mind a good cry.” Porthos chuckled. Athos rubbed up against his arm, openly-- though perhaps unconsciously-- asking to be hugged again. Porthos was happy to oblige.

“Do you need another Gatorade?” Aramis asked.

“Hm? No, it's all right. I think the worst is over, actually. The electrolytes probably helped.”

“All right,” Aramis breathed. “Shall we go to bed then?”

“Are you daft?” Porthos demanded, affronted. “It's literally thirteen minutes until Christmas. You won't wait up thirteen more minutes?”

“All right, all right, fine. Thirteen more minutes. Then this awful itchy jumper is coming off and I'm going to sleep.”

“I--” Athos began, then trailed off.

“What?”

“I'm not sure I'm going to stay awake,” Athos admitted, timidly. Porthos and Aramis shared a look of mutual fondness. “I think I'll say Merry Christmas now,” Athos continued. “Just in case. Eh-- merry Christmas, then.”

“Merry Christmas, Ath,” Aramis crowed gleefully, and Porthos smiled.

“Merry Christmas, Athos,” he echoed softly, running his hands through Athos' hair one more time.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know if ugly sweater parties are a thing in the UK, and if they are, I don't know what they're called. I also don't know what Christmas songs are played in the UK. I also _also_ don't know why the entire internet has decided that modern!AU also means British!AU, but there's a worry for another day.
> 
> Happy Holidays and Happy New Year :)


End file.
